


Dirtiest White Boy in America Gone Clean

by iamthececimonster



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Drugs, Iggy is a good bro, Language, M/M, Smut, Terry dies, Top Ian Gallagher, Ukrainian Mickey Milkovich, but it's not shown, but not shown, violence is discussed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthececimonster/pseuds/iamthececimonster
Summary: Mickey doesn't break out of prison. (We'll just conveniently assume Ian also doesn't end up in jail, if you please.) He's still Mickey, Ian just makes him feel a little softer.Or: Honestly, I just want someone to give our boys a chance? Is that too much to ask? Just give 'em a fighting chance. I don't ask for a lot. They deserve the world. They're doing their best. Their best isn't always great, but they're trying and I love them.Or: "This is less than 10,000 words and over 220 of them are some variation of the work 'fuck,' and Ceci just has a thing for pretty boys with trash mouths, so she's not even gonna apologize for that."





	Dirtiest White Boy in America Gone Clean

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry if this gets OOC or whatever. Also, what is tense? I don't know her...
> 
> Shout out to Jimmy, James, and Leah for beta'ing this shit, and all my shit. They're the best ever. 
> 
> Here's the translations for all the Ukrainian: (I do not speak Ukrainian. I'm sorry if they're wildly inaccurate, please don't hate me)  
> 1) Iggy: старий мертвий = "old man's dead"  
> 2) Mickey: що ебать!? = "What the fuck!?"  
> 3) Iggy: маленький брат! = "Little brother!"  
> 4) Mickey: тролль = "troll"  
> 5) Mandy: чуває чоловіки! = "Fucking men!"

There's something to be said, he supposed, about planning a prison break. It took fucking forever, and he kinda had to keep his head the fuck down if he wanted to not get caught. So, when his public defender called him for a meeting, a month and a half after Iggy had called to tell him Terry was fucking dead - 

“Iggy, what the fuck?” Mickey had growled into the very public phone.   
“старий мертвий, Mick.” His older brother had sounded a little breathless.   
“що ебать!?” Mickey felt himself starting to sweat. “Whatdya do, you fucking idiot!?”  
“Wasn't fucking me, you prick. Fucking dumbass was drinking at the Alibi, screaming at some fucking shit on the TV or whatever, and apparently just fucking keeled over. They all kinda laughed cuz it looked like he passed out drunk, you know how he's like.”  
Mickey did know. Had found the bastard passed out on more occasions than he cared to try to count, had watched the whole damn cycle.  
“Then Kev realized he wasn't fucking moving,” Iggy continued, “and went to check on him. Already fucking dead. Doctors said it was a damn blood clot. A fucking blood clot, Mick. A fucking blood clot killed Terry Milkovich.” Iggy had let out a humorless laugh.  
Mickey had breathed out, low and slow through his teeth. Terry was fucking dead. “Holy fucking shit, Ig.” He had sat down, hard, on the feeble plastic chair by the phone bank.  
“Thought you should hear it from us before anyone else.”  
“Yeah.” The phone had beeped, indicating Mickey's time was near up. “Listen I gotta go. Stay outta fucking trouble.”  
“Yeah, you too.” 

\- suffice it to say, Mickey felt like he might vomit. His palms were sweating and his damn knee was going a mile a minute. The rat faced public defender had a fake leather briefcase. He was barely older than Mickey and already looked like he was fucking balding and half the time, Mickey kinda wanted to tell the kid to go get a fucking drink cuz he looked so damn tense. He walked into the private meeting room flanked a guard with a grim face, sweating under the collar of his Macy's off-the-rack suit.   
“You good, man?” Mickey asked, not really caring about the answer but getting kind of a kick out of watching the fucker squirm.  
He just raised one eyebrow at Mickey and sat down, opening his briefcase. “Alright, Mr. -” he started, but Mickey glared “- Mickey, alright Mickey. I don't know how you managed, but you've kept your nose clean for the last 18 months, and somehow no one finds that suspicious in the slightest” the eyebrow quirked again, Mickey threw his hands up in defense, and the man continued “and they've got an over crowding problem. So, play your cards right, you could be outta here by Christmas.”  
Mickey felt like the air was pushed out of his chest, suddenly and forcefully. Like someone had punched him in the solar plexus and now he was drowning.  
“By...Christmas?” He croaked.  
The lawyer nodded, shuffling some documents. “If you keep your damn head down and play your cards right. No trouble, Mickey. I mean it.”  
Just like that, all those years, down to, what? Three and a half? Mickey couldn't breathe. So, he just nodded.  
“Oh.” Mickey looked up at the blonde man - Eric, maybe?, who was standing across the table from him, reorganizing his briefcase. “I heard about your father. I'm sorry.”  
Mickey scoffed. “I'm fucking not. Bastard had it coming. Just sorry I didn't get to do it myself.”  
Eric - no, Aaron. Or Andrew? Fuck. Pinched his nose. “I did not hear that, Mr. Milkovich.”  
Mickey shrugged. “Yeah Yeah. Head down, nose clean, home by Christmas. Got it. See ya later.”  
He lifted one hand in an approximation of a wave, and whatever the hell his name was lifted his hand back and grinned as the guard let him out. Mickey was led back to his cell and he sat down hard.  
Then, suddenly, he tore up all his plans. All his carefully thought out notes. At mess that night, he told the other guys.  
“Plans off, man.”  
“The fuck, Milkovich?” The, frankly, massive mother fucker sitting across from Mickey cracked his knuckles, glaring.  
“Fuck off. Shit came up. Things change. You got a fucking problem with that?” Mickey raised one dark eyebrow, eyes flashing with a threat.  
The larger man backed down. Not for nothing did Mickey have a reputation as the most intimidating fuckers in the whole fucking South Side. And the rap sheet to back it.  
And that was that. Mickey kept his head down, kept his nose clean, and tried not to count the days to Christmas. 

“Alright, Mr. Milkovich.” The public defender stood there, his fake leather briefcase next to him, shoving a piece of paper under Mickey's nose. “December 16th. You'll be on probation, obviously. Random drug tests, check ins. Find work. Stay clean.”   
Mickey stared at the document. Iggy had mentioned something about a mechanic job he could get, all on the up and up, genuine money and shit.   
He gulped. “Shit, man.”  
“You're gettin a helluva shot here, Mickey. Don't mess it up.” The lawyer's voice was unusually soft and his eyes were warm and Mickey thought of Ian. 

Ian.  
Ian, who hadn't been to see him in months.  
Ian, who only wrote sometimes, called infrequently.  
Ian, who he dreamed about every damn night, loved with every shred of his torn up heart.  
Ian, who had a boyfriend now. Was medicated now, stable now.  
Who didn't need Mickey fucking it all up. 

Almost unconsciously, Mickey touched the place on his chest where the hastily done tattoo read “Ian Gallagher,” the second L shaking and an awkward afterthought.   
Blowing a breath out, hard, through his teeth, Mickey thumbed at his lower lip and then signed the document. Three weeks. He just had to get through three fucking weeks. Then he was free, and not coming back. Seriously, honest to god, never fucking coming back. 

He sat back on his bunk that night, staring at the picture of Ian on his wall. It was an old picture, and the edges had gone soft from being handled so much, but Ian was laughing, hard, arm thrown around Mickey's shoulder, green eyes crinkled and his head thrown back. Mickey was flipping off the photographer - Mandy, if he remembered correctly, the C on his right middle finger stark against his pale skin and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that had turned into a full blown smirk seconds later. He reached out and traced the edge of Ian's laughing face in the photograph and wondered if he should call the younger boy.  
_ And say what, exactly, Milkovich? _ He chastised himself. “ _ Hey Ian. Turns out I'm getting out in three weeks and I know you promised you'd wait but we both know that was a lie and you're better off without me, but you ruined everyone else for me and I'm never gonna love anyone but you”  _ wasn't exactly the kind of thing Mickey could see himself saying, so he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his hand down his face.  
Instead, he called Iggy the next morning. Iggy informed him that they still had Terry's house, so Mickey could stay there until he got on his feet, since Svet had moved out of their house, was staying with Vee and Kev. And then Mickey called Svet, updated her.  
“You'll be home for Christmas?” She asked in her clipped, emotionless way.  
“Yeah. I'd love to spend it with Yev.” Mickey felt his neck flush slightly but dammit, he wanted to spend fucking Christmas with his son.  
“Okay.”  
“Okay?”  
“Okay. I bring him to you morning after you come home. Call when you get home.” Her voice got softer at the end, barely, almost unnoticeably.  
“The kid awake yet?” Mickey asked.  
Then a tiny, high pitched voice in the background. “Mama, who dat?”  
“Papa. Tell Papa hi.”  
Then Mickey heard his son's bright voice over the phone, “Papa! Hi Papa!”  
His voice caught in his throat. “Hey Yevvy. Love you, buddy.”  
“Love you, too, Papa!”  
“You bein’ good for your mama?”  
“Mhmm!” The boy said proudly.  
The line beeped.  
“Alright, Yev. Lemme talk to your mama. Go eat your breakfast. I love you.”  
“Love you, too!”  
Svetlana's voice came back over the phone. “See you soon.”  
“Real damn soon.”  
Mickey hung up the phone, wondering when exactly he became so fond of the fucking Russian bitch. He supposed she wasn't too bad when she wasn't being a manipulative bitch. And she was a good mom. That helped. And Terry was dead, and she had apologized, once, almost a year ago - 

“Thank you.” She had said, in her clipped way, interrupting Mickey's ridiculous train of thought.   
“And I told the fucker...wait, what?”  
“Thank you.” She repeated, slower, like he was stupid.  
“For fucking what?”  
“My son.” She said simply. “Our son. And sorry, you know. For Terry.”  
Mickey was speechless. Mickey fucking Milkovich was god damn speechless. Didn't happen very fucking often. The thought crossed somewhere in the back of his mind that it kinda felt like the whole damn world was gonna apologize for Terry before the bastard ever apologized for his damn self. Finally, the gift of speech returned to Mickey.  
“Yeah.” He pushed out, gruff. “Give Yev a hug for me, okay? Tell him I love him.” 

\- and somewhere in there he found he didn't really quite mind her much. She was honest and frank and blunt but he kinda appreciated it. And she had brought him divorce papers a week after Terry died and actually fucking smiled, which was a little terrifying in and of itself, but she promised to have an extra shot for him to celebrate and to bring Yev the next time she visited and he figured they'd be okay.

Three weeks moved like fuckin molasses when you were waiting on it, but finally, fina-fucking-ly, the morning of December 16th rolled around, and Mickey was escorted to the exit of the prison. He hoped Iggy remembered to bring his fucking jacket, cuz this hoodie was not gonna fucking cut it in Chicago winter, but he shoved his fists into his pockets when the door opened for him. He walked to the edge of the chain link fence, breath fogging in front of his face, expecting to see Iggy's beat up truck in the parking lot. Instead, leaning against a sleek black sedan was… 

“Ian?” Mickey asked, resisting the urge to fucking pinch himself, because DAMN Gallagher looked good, leaning against the damn car with a stupid fucking smirk on his face and an extra winter coat in his arms, and this had to be a fucking dream. He wasn't really gonna be released, the last few months were a fucking dream, he was gonna wake up and -   
“Heard you might need a ride.” Ian spoke and took a few steps closer to Mickey. “Thought maybe I could help.”  
Mickey took a step forward, and then froze again. “What about your fucking boyfriend?”  
Ian cocked his head to one side and got this look on his face. Exasperated and amused and Mickey was always torn between wanting to punch the kid and kiss him when he looked like that.  
“From where I'm standing kinda looks to me like my boyfriend is standing in the fucking snow in December in Chicago in a fucking hoodie trying to argue with me like a dumbass.”  
Mickey spluttered. “I...you...what the FUCK, Gallagher!?”  
Finally, Ian closed the gap between them. He held the jacket out, but Mickey kept his fists clenched in his pockets and so Ian draped the warm coat around his shoulders. It took all of Mickey's self control not to lean into the taller boy's touch, but he stood rigid.  
Ian's voice softened. “Look, Mick. I'm sorry. Can you get in the car where it's warm and we can talk? And get you home?”  
Mickey scoffed, but followed Ian to the car. “Nice fucking wheels, Carrot Top.”  
“It's Lip's. Got himself a fancy fucking job at some start up or some shit on the North Side.”  
“Bitch.” Mickey muttered, melting into the warm seat underneath him.  
Ian was singing, off key and under his breath, to the pop song on the radio, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Mickey could tell he wanted to say something, but he sure as shit wasn't talking first. They came to a stop light.  
“Listen, Mick. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”  
Mickey raised one eyebrow.  
“Travis was...he was nothing. I thought I could replace you, but, god. Mickey. Nothing could ever replace you.”  
The car behind them beeped and they realized the light was green. Ian started driving again.  
“Broke up with him almost a year ago. Fucking hell. Shoulda told you. Wanted to, a hundred different fucking times. Couldn't figure out how to say it. I didn't...I didn't want to be waiting for you, but shit. You're under my skin, Mickey. It's always been you. And I fucking abandoned you.” Tears started to fill Ian's eyes, and angrily, he pushed his fist into his eyes to wipe them.  
Mickey's voice was quiet when he spoke. “Figured you finally wised up to the fact that you were better than me.” He said with a shrug. “What is it Vee called me? Dirtiest White Boy in America?” He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. South Side thug with a shit fucking father and you wanted to go somewhere. Where was I gonna get you? Just assumed you finally fucking figured that out.”  
Ian felt his chest squeeze. They were speeding down the highway and Lip would kill him if he so much as got a scratch on the new car, so he gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to slow his breathing.  
“God, Mick. No. I don't give a fuck about any of that shit, you know that. You've been there for me since the fucking beginning. Takin care of me, watchin’ out for me, fuckin’ lovin me. And I was a fucking idiot.”  
“Not an idiot, Firecrotch.”  
Ian smiled a little at the old nickname. “Thought about you every fucking day, Mick.”  
“Yeah?”  
“God, yeah. Fuck, everything reminds me of you. Can't fucking take my meds without thinkin’ about you shoving them in my face, forcing me to eat.” He chuckled a little. “Patched up a dumb fuckin’ teenager's busted lip the other day and I swear to god he looked just like you, that defiant, angry look in his eyes, like he was daring me to question him and I almost laughed.”  
“Never called for an ambulance, dumbass.” Mickey grinned to himself.  
“No. You just had a bullet pulled out of your ass at my sister's kitchen table.” Ian raised an eyebrow, biting his lip to stop from grinning.  
“Thought about you, too. All the damn time.” Mickey huffed out. Then he paused. “I was gonna run for it, ya know?”  
Ian's face turned somehow whiter behind the freckles. “What!?”  
Mickey shook his head. “Was planning a damn escape. Was gonna come find you and run away to Mexico or some shit.”  
Ian just gaped.  
“Then the fucking lawyer-”  
“Allen.”  
Mickey rolled his eyes. “-fucking Allen tells me they're getting rid of people cuz of overcrowding, and I've been so quiet, keepin my head down and shit, they're thinkin bout letting me go. So I figure, you know. What would Ian say? So I scrapped the escape plans and decided to wait it out.”   
“Jesus, Mick, you're fucking reckless.” Ian sighed, but he was blushing.  
“Thought you liked me reckless, Gallagher.”  
The blush crept higher onto his angular cheekbones and Mickey felt a little like he was floating. 

Finally, Ian pulled in front of Terry's house. Iggy was sitting out front of the house, smoking, when they drove up. When Mickey threw the door open, he smashed the cigarette out and jumped off the porch.  
“Ey! маленький брат!” Iggy called, wrapping one arm around Mickey and tugging him into a half-hearted headlock.  
“Get the fuck off me, you тролль.” Mickey grunted, shoving his brother off, but it was without real malice.  
Ian tossed Iggy the keys to Lip's car. “If you fuck it up, I'll help him bury your body, Ig.” The younger boy's face was hard, fierce, and Mickey felt his blood pressure rise a little.  
Iggy just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Mick, call your fucking probation office and your ex fucking wife and we'll see you tomorrow.”  
Mickey looked between Ian and his brother. “Yeah, okay.” He walked to the house, and then realized Ian was following him. “Wait, you're...are you staying?”  
Ian's eyebrows hit his hairline. “As if I'm fucking letting you outta my sight again, Mick. Get the fuck in the house.”  
Mickey's eyes widened, and Iggy sped off down the road, presumably to return Lip's fucking car, and Ian was standing with one foot on the step below him and looking at him with this hard, fiery look in his green eyes. Mickey gulped and pressed his thumb into his lip. Ian grabbed his wrist and yanked the hand down.  
“Get in the fucking house before I pick you up and carry you, Mickey.” His voice was barely a whisper.  
Mickey would never admit it to anyone, but he gasped at that. Then he turned on his heel and yanked the door open, hard. He felt Ian behind him, slamming the door shut, grabbing him by the arm, spinning him around, and pressing him hard against the door. Mickey's breath was coming out in pants.  
“Call your fucking PO, Mick. Hurry up.” He was pressing a phone into the shorter boy's hand.  
Mickey dialed the number on the top of the paper in his hand, fingers shaking.  
“Yeah, this is Mickey Milkovich? Yeah, yeah, Mikhailo. Yeah, just got to my brother's house. Monday? Yeah, alright man. Yeah, this number works.” He breathed out a laugh, trying to ignore Ian pressed against him, kissing up his neck. “Yeah man, I'm not tryna get in trouble ever again. Alright. I'll see ya.”  
He hit end on the call and held the phone out to Ian, dropping the papers on the floor. They fluttered around his feet.  
The younger boy shook his head, pausing his assault on Mickey's neck. “Svet. Let her know you're home so she can bring Yev by tomorrow.”  
Mickey sighed and dialed the number from memory. Ian pressed harder against him, grinding down into his thigh, and Mickey suppressed a moan as the phone rang.  
“You home now?” Svetlana barked by way of a greeting.  
“Uh, yeah.” It was getting hard to focus, the way Ian's long fingers were trailing up and down his side. “Is...is Yev…”  
Svetlana laughed. “Go. Tell pretty orange boy hi. I bring Yev tomorrow, 10 am.”  
Then she hung up on him. Mickey threw the phone away from him, refusing to make another damn call. It hit the sofa with a muffled thud.  
Finally, fucking finally, Ian leaned his face against Mickey's. “Missed you, Mick.”  
“Prove it, tough guy.” Mickey retorted, thrusting his hips against Ian's.  
Ian brought one hand up to Mickey's cheek, soft and gentle and a little bit cold, and Mickey leaned into the touch. Leaned into the way Ian's fingers were caressing his cheekbone, his jawline. He brought one hand up to cup the back of Ian's neck, running his tattooed fingers through the bright red curls at the base of Ian's skull, and nuzzled his nose against Ian's. And then. And then.  
Their mouths met and Mickey felt like he was on fire. Ian's mouth was warm and wet and insistent against his, and he immediately opened his mouth to grant the younger boy access. Ian swiped his tongue across Mickey's upper lip and bit down, tugging slightly, and Mickey moaned against his mouth. In a frenzy, Mickey started pushing Ian's jacket off of his shoulders, and luckily Ian seemed to pick up on the hurry, letting his hands fall to help and then pulling Mickey off the door to push his jacket to the floor as well.  
“Shoes” Ian muttered against Mickey's lips and then, slowly, painfully, pulled away from the kiss. He stood frozen for a moment, staring at Mickey, his lips swollen and spit slicked, eyes wide and bright, hair disheveled. “God you're beautiful, Mick. Never gonna let you go again.” He murmured, almost reverently.  
Mickey blushed - he'd deny it if you asked, but it's true - and ducked his head a little, chest heaving. Ian grabbed his hand, and yanked him to the worn out sofa.  
“Shoes.” He said, again, unlacing his own boots.  
Mickey kicked off his worn out sneakers, tossed them by the door, and yanked his hoodie off as well, tossing it onto the sofa. Then he headed for his bedroom.  
“Where you going?” Ian asked, looking almost shy, as he pulled his boots off and straightened up.  
“Bed.” Mickey grunted. “As fucking nice as it sounds, I haven't been fucked in way too long and I refuse to have the first time in however long up against the damn door, Firecrotch.”   
Ian froze, a smirk spreading across his lips.   
“You gonna come show me how much you missed me?” Mickey asked, voice low, almost a growl. “Gonna let me prove to you you're mine?”  
Ian jumped up and followed Mickey, pushing him onto the bed with practiced grace and immediately started grinding his hips into the shorter man's. He had one hand cradling Mickey's face, one hand gripping Mickey's hip so hard it would almost certainly leave a bruise, and Mickey's hands were everywhere. Skittering along Ian's chest, under his shirt, his back, across his shoulders.  
“Is this real?” Mickey murmured into Ian's mouth as the redhead tangled his fingers in Mickey's hair and continued the hard assault on Mickey's mouth.  
“So fucking real, baby.” Ian pressed kisses against Mickey's neck and Mickey felt his toes curl - at the kisses, and the pet name, who's to say? “Can't wait to show you how fucking real. God. You're fucking mine, Mick. Mine and no one else's, you hear me?”  
“Ian…” Mickey sighed out, tugging at the bottom of Ian's shirt.  
He pulled back, just enough to let Mickey yank the shirt off him and throw it somewhere across the room. He did the same with Mickey's shirt and immediately started sucking a massive hickey into Mickey's collarbone, teasing the older man's nipples with his long fingers, tracing the messy tattoo on his boyfriend's chest. Mickey was squirming underneath him, bucking his jean clad hips into Ian's.  
“Gotta make sure everybody knows your mine, Mick.” Ian's voice was breathless.  
“Touch me, Ian, baby, please.” Mickey whined, grinding his hips up.  
Ian glowed, hands flying to Mickey's pants, unbuttoning them, yanking the jeans and Mickey's boxers off in one fell swoop and tossing them to the floor. “Always ask so fuckin nicely for me, Mick. So needy for me.”  
“Fuck you, I've been in prison for almost 4 years.” Mickey mumbled against Ian's mouth, pulling him back for a kiss and fumbling with Ian's belt.  
Finally, Ian stood up, and Mickey whined at the loss. But then, slowly, Ian undid his belt buckle. The belt hit the floor with a thud, and Ian undid his button and zipper. Mickey was transfixed. Ian's jeans fell down his slim hips, hardened cock immediately jumping to attention. Mickey raised his eyebrows.  
“Goin’ commando, Sergeant Gallagher?” He teased with a grin.  
Ian just winked, and then slotted his body against Mickey's, pressing the shorter man into the mattress and gently grinding down. Mickey hissed.  
“Fucking hell, Carrot Top. What part of 'been in prison for almost 4 years’ did you not understand? Get the fuck in me or this is gonna get real disappointing for everyone here.”  
“Ask nicely” Ian demanded, nibbling on Mickey's ear lobe.  
“Fuck. Ian. Please. Please fuck me.”  
Ian smiled, reaching into the drawer in table beside them for the lube he knew was there - he put it there - and slicked up two fingers. As much of a hurry Mickey was in, Ian didn't want to hurt him, so he slowly pressed one finger into Mickey's hole and the older man keened. Finally, when Mickey was pressing back onto Ian's finger, mouth open and nails digging into Ian's forearm, Ian leaned forward.  
“Whatdya want, Mick?”  
Mickey's eyes fluttered closed. “More, Ian, please.”  
“Lemme see those beautiful eyes, baby.”  
Mickey's eyes flew open as Ian added another finger, scissoring deep in Mickey, hitting his prostate again and again. The brunette let out a low groan, fucking himself on Ian's long fingers.  
“God you're so fucking beautiful, Mickey.”  
Mickey felt his chest constrict. “Ian. Fuck me.”  
Without further ado, Ian slipped his fingers out of Mickey, who groaned at the loss, but then his breath hitched when he felt Ian line up and slid into him, slowly, achingly slowly. The stretch was just the right side of painful and Mickey cried out, his back arching, gripping the sheets on either side of him. Ian was gripping Mickey's hips, grinding gently as he bottomed out.  
“Fuck, Mick, you're so fucking tight. God. Take it so fucking good for me. Missed you so much.”  
“More, Ian, please. Harder.” Mickey panted, eyes wide. “Wanna fucking feel you.”  
Ian loved this. Loved that he was the one who got to have this Mickey. Loved that this ex-con, the meanest mother fucker in all of Chicago was his, the man who made fuckers twice his size cower in fear, was so sweet for him, begging him to fuck, harder, faster, give him more. So, he gave Mickey what he asked for. He'd always give Mickey whatever he asked for. He pulled back, slowly, and then slammed into Mickey, who cried out, and then covered his mouth with his hand. Ian swatted it away.  
“No.” He grunted, continuing to slam into Mickey. “Wanna hear you. So fucking good for me, Mick. Nobody fuckin’ takes it like you, Mickey, fuck.”  
Mickey let out a low moan and grabbed Ian's shoulders, digging his blunt nails into the skin there. “Fuck, yes. Ian, fuck. Yes, right there. Fuckin’ hell I'm not gonna fucking last.”  
“Me either.” Ian panted, moving one hand to tweak Mickey's nipple.  
Mickey whined, high and loud. Ian dipped his head down, teasing first one nipple with his tongue, his teeth, and then the other, and then kissing his way up Mickey's chest and neck, leaving hickeys and bite marks as he went. Mickey was a blubbering mess under him, rolling his hips in time to Ian's assault, incoherent syllables that may have been yes, or Ian, or fuck falling out of his mouth.  
“So fuckin’ good for me, Mick. You're mine, forever. Fuck. Cum for me, Mickey, cum for me.”  
With a jolt, Mickey was orgasming, completely untouched, cum shooting up between their chests and making a sticky mess. As soon as Ian felt Mickey clench around him, he was cumming, too, thrusts stuttering as he orgasmed deep inside of Mickey.  
“Fuck.” Mickey's head fell back on the pillows.  
“Just fucking did, man. Gimme a minute.” Ian smirked, wincing slightly as he pulled out of his boyfriend.  
Mickey swatted his arm. On wobbly legs, Ian went quickly to the bathroom and grabbed a damp washcloth. Then slowly, gently, he cleaned himself first, and then Mickey. Mickey smiled lazily as Ian was wiping jizz off his chest, unconsciously pressing into the touch. Ian pressed a kiss near Mickey's temple.  
“Love you, Mick.” He murmured.  
“Love you, too, Red. Always have.” Mickey mumbled back, and Ian felt his heart soar. “Now get your lanky ass in this bed and take a fuckin’ nap with me.” 

Mickey woke up to something fucking screeching from the floor. He shot up, quick and violent, but the arm draped over his waist and the legs bracketing his stopped him. A shock of red in the dark room. Ian. He was in his dead father’s house, sleeping, naked, with Ian. The screeching kept happening.  
“Aye. Aye, Red, what the is that fuckin’ noise!?” Mickey shook the redhead's shoulder, but Ian just groaned in his sleep and rolled over. “Fuckin’ dick.” He muttered, but at least he wasn't trapped now.  
He slid off the bed, first pulling his boxers on, and then fumbled around for whatever was making that god awful siren sound. He found Ian's cell phone in the pocket of his discarded jeans, an alarm blaring, announcing it was 9:30 and, consequently, time for Ian to take his meds. Mickey shut the alarm off, feeling a sense of something like pride that Ian had done this, made himself accountable like this. He clambered back on the bed.  
Softly, Mickey brushed a few stray locks of red hair off Ian's face. “Come on, Gallagher. Gotta get going so you can get your meds.”  
Ian mumbled something into the pillow.  
“Can't fuckin’ understand you, Mumbles.” Mickey grumbled.  
Ian moved his head to one side. “Kitchen counter. Paper bag.”  
Mickey rolled his eyes. Fucker came prepared. “I'm not your fuckin’ butler, Gallagher.”  
But then he kissed Ian's temple, pulled his shirt off the floor and onto his torso and found his way to the kitchen. The sky was pitch black, and somewhere in the distance Mickey heard drunken laughter and the sound of sirens. Home sweet fucking home. There was a small paper bag on the counter, and Mickey checked - three little orange pill bottles. He opened the fridge, checking for food. Nothing. He sighed, dug the phone out of the sofa cushions, and ordered a pizza.  
“I'll pay you extra to get here in the next 30 fucking minutes, man.” He said, cradling the phone in his neck while he dug behind the frozen vegetables to find the coffee can of money Iggy usually left there. Enough for food for the weekend, at least.  
He made a mental list of all the shit he was gonna need to buy, and the phone rang again.  
“What?” He answered quickly, thinking of the sleeping boy in his bed. He yawned.  
“Yo, it's Iggy. Wanted to remind you, I'm taking you to meet the guy at the shop on Monday. When you meeting the PO?”  
“Monday morning. Should be done by noon. Meet you at like 1?”  
“Yeah. Ian still there?”  
Mickey smiled a little to himself. “Fuckers in bed asleep. I just got out of fucking prison and  _ he's  _ exhausted.”  
“Tired him out, huh?”  
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Ig.” Then he paused. “Ordered pizza. Should be here in like 20 if you're hungry.”  
“You gonna put pants on?”  
“I'm fuckin wearing -”  
“Real pants. I'm not eating dinner with my kid brother and his boyfriend in their boxers.”  
“Fuck you, you're not invited.”  
“Yeah yeah. Sorry I didn't go shopping, was pretty fuckin busy.”  
“Fuckin’ useless.”  
“Fuck you.” Mickey heard someone hollering in the background of Iggy's phone call. “Fuck. Gotta go. See you tomorrow or whatever. Tell the fuckin’ redhead his brother got the car back in one fucking piece so he can pull his panties out his fucking ass now.”  
“Stop fuckin talkin about my boyfriend's underwear.” Mickey mumbled.  
“Oh hoho. Ya boyfriend.” Iggy teased.  
“Go to hell.”  
“You first.”  
There was a knock at the door. “I'm hanging up.” Mickey said, and did just that without waiting for Iggy to respond.  
There was another knock. Mickey grabbed a handful of cash, and then yanked the door open.  
“Jesus fucking christ man, you on fire out here or some shit?” He muttered to the pizza guy.  
The pizza guy - a fucking pimple faced teenager - was staring into the dimly lit room at the massive hickey on Mickey's neck. Mickey rolled his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.  
Then a voice came from behind him. “Mick, who's at the door?” Ian called out, voice heavy with sleep.  
“Fuckin’ hell you woke up sleeping beauty.” Mickey grabbed the pizza from the confused looking teenager and shoved the cash into his hand. The kid looked frozen. “What, you never seen a gay man in his boxers order a fuckin’ pizza or some shit? Jesus fucking Christ kid, get off my fuckin’ porch!”  
The kid jolted suddenly and scrambled back to his car. Mickey slammed the door shut and laughed a little. He grabbed a glass of water, the bag of pills, balanced everything on the pizza box, and walked back to the bedroom.  
“Dinner is served, ya fuckin’ princess.”  
“You ordered pizza?” Ian sat up.  
“There's no fuckin’ food in this damn house, and you can't fucking take these meds on an empty stomach, so yeah.”  
Ian felt himself smile. He grabbed the water and the paper bag off the top of the pizza box and scooted over to make room for Mickey and the box. Suddenly ravenous, he pulled the lid off and immediately starting scarfing down a slice.  
“Jesus fucking christ, kid. Don't choke yourself.” Mickey took a slow bite, relishing the greasy, hot cheese.  
Ian winked, smiling around a mouth full of pizza.  
“Take your fucking pills.”  
“This is your first meal out of the slammer, isn't it?” Ian said, pulling the cap off his Lithium.  
Mickey nodded, chewing his pizza crust.  
“Coulda gone out.” Ian grimaced as he swallowed the bitter tasting medicine.  
Mickey shook his head. “This is better.”  
He squeezed Ian's leg and took another slice of pizza out of the box. Ian took his other pills and ate another slice. Then his hands started to shake and the lithium tremors shook his legs. Mickey pushed the pizza box onto the floor, moved the pills and the water to the bedside table, and gently laid Ian down. He curled himself around the taller man, holding him tight while Ian trembled. He pressed soft kisses into the redhead's freckled shoulder and collar bones, ran his tattooed fingers down his pale side.  
“I gotchu, Ian. I'm here and I'm not goin anywhere.” He murmured. “I got you.”  
Ian hummed slightly in response and then dozed off again. Mickey fell asleep again with his nose buried in Ian's neck.

The same screeching alarm went off in the morning, and Mickey jumped again.   
“Fuckin’ chill, Mick.”  
“Fuck you, man. You gotta change that fucking alarm. Gonna jump out of my fucking skin.”  
“Mmm.” Ian leaned across Mickey and shut the alarm, and then laid, draped half over the shorter boy.  
“Get the fuck off, Jolly Green Giant.” Mickey shoved without malice.  
“Gimme a kiss.” Ian teased.  
Mickey groaned, but twisted his neck to reach Ian's face. He pressed a kiss into the other boy's mouth. Then he pulled back and pushed Ian for real.  
“You want more than that, get the fuck off me. I need to piss and I need to shower.” 

Christmas morning is fast approaching and Mickey shivers in the poorly insulated house he sometimes shares with Iggy and he knows Ian’s got to be freezing cuz that space heater they got from Kev and Vee without asking too many questions about where it came from isn’t doing much. But Mandy said she’d be coming back for Christmas and they’re all going to the Gallagher’s anyway, so he figures maybe after the new year he’ll try to convince Ian the redhead should sleep at his sister’s house, just so he doesn’t wake up frost bitten come January. But now, they’re on the living room floor, next to the space heater, and Ian’s wearing Mickey’s warmest hoodie and two pairs of socks and they’re trying valiantly to wrap everybody’s Christmas presents without getting chinese food on them or making it look like Frank had drunkenly attacked the wrapping paper.   
For the first time in probably his entire life, Mickey’s kind of hesitantly excited about the damn holiday. Ian’s been playing Christmas music non-stop, humming under his breath a little off-key, and Yev was so excited to have his dad home for the holiday that Mickey and Ian had even brought him to this shining mall on the North Side to take a picture with a too-smiley Santa. Being around that many people with their expensive clothes and perfect smiles made Mickey’s skin crawl, and he kept his gloves on as he held his son’s hand, because the last thing he wanted was for some North Side fucking prick to start something in front of the kid, and even Ian looked a little on edge. But they got the pictures and bought Yev a hot chocolate from a vendor outside the L station and the kid was bouncing in his seat on the damn train yammering about how Santa was gonna bring him a mechanic set so he could be just like his papa and Mickey felt Ian’s shoulder pressed to his and maybe it was okay to be a little excited. And Kev had miraculously procured the aforementioned toy mechanic set, which they hid in Mandy’s unused closet and Mickey felt a tiny flame flickering in his chest.  
Christmas Eve is loud as hell, all the kids watching the Grinch on the TV, and everyone over the age of 18 was well on their way to drunk except for Mickey, who sat nursing the same beer all night and Ian, who looked forlornly at the shots Fiona and V and Kev were doing while he sipped the soda in his hand. Mickey made his way over to his morose looking boyfriend -  _ Ian Gallagher was his boyfriend holy shit  _ \- and wrapped one arm gently around the taller man’s waist, loose but comforting and There. And if Debbie squeals a little bit about it from behind them and smacks Mandy on the arm until the dark haired girl holding Debbie’s daughter turns and snaps a picture of her brother leaning gently against her best friend, well. Can you blame them?  
Christmas morning is electric. Lip laughs when Ian burns the cinnamon rolls Svet brought over, but they pour icing over them and you can’t really tell, so they eat them anyway. He feels his throat catch with something like jealousy, or maybe happiness, when he watches Mickey fucking Milkovich tug his little brother down by the neck, kiss the side of his face, and hand him his meds and glass of orange juice. Who would’ve fucking thought they’d be here, standing in the Gallagher kitchen, with Lip passing Mickey a coffee mug that’s somehow become His Mug, with Mickey’s kid tugging on Ian’s flannel pajamas asking when they can open presents, with Fiona holding Frannie and trying to make sure everyone’s eating something, and Lip finds himself smirking a little when Ian’s fingers find Mickey’s and Mickey doesn’t shake them off, instead, he wraps his tattooed fingers around Ian’s freckled ones and holds tight, telling Yev to see if Vee and Kev’s girls are ready yet.

They make it through the winter, somehow. It’s cold, and sometimes, they curl up in the narrow bed at Fiona’s house, with Iggy and Mandy on the sofas downstairs because the heater’s shot again in Terry’s fucking house and by March, Mickey’s wondering if they should just fucking tear the damn thing down. It’s pouring down rain and there’s water coming in one of the windows and Iggy kicks the heater and starts cussing in Ukrainian and Mandy comes in, drenched, holding three pizzas.   
“Fucking hell we should just get an apartment, this is fucking nuts.” She says, starting to take her jacket off, and then stopping herself.  
“Could stay at Fi’s again.” Ian mumbles around his pizza slice, still in his EMT uniform.  
The Milkovich siblings look at each other, near-identical grimaces on their faces.  
“No fuckin’ privacy, Red.” Iggy tosses out.  
Ian shrugs, because, yeah. He’s used to that. But he does like not having to be quiet when he’s fucking Mickey into the mattress, likes it when Mickey gets to be as loud as he wants, shouting pleas and prayers and...he’s got to stop this train of thought before he pops a fuckin’ woody on the Milkovich’s fuckin’ sofa.  
Mickey turns the idea around in his head. They could. Fuckin’ leave this shithole, stop paying for fuckin’ heat that doesn’t fuckin’ work, get a place. But the pizza’s too good and Iggy manages to get the heat working again and he’s got his feet in Ian’s lap while the redhead is kicking Mandy’s ass at Call of Duty so he pushes the idea out of his head. Iggy shakes his head to himself at this version of his little brother, the version with his socked feet up on Ian’s lap, eyes half-closed on the sofa without a second thought, and smiles a little.  
That night, Ian’s fucking Mickey slow and long and gentle in a way that curls his toes and makes him pray to a god he’s not even sure he believes in and they curl up together with rain pouring down the windowpanes and he can hear Iggy’s rattling snores from the living room and Mickey lays awake for a while and thinks that maybe it’s time to say goodbye to this shithole house with all of Terry’s fucking ghosts in it.

Finally, fina-fucking-ly, they’ve found a place. Iggy’s moved out already, got a place with a buddy of his that he promises, up down and sideways, is on the fucking up-and-up, shut up Mickey, I’m not tryna go to fucking jail again you idiot. But he agrees to help Mickey and Mandy move into the rickety two-bedroom they found by the train station. The water takes forever to heat up, but the heat works and it’s even got fuckin’ air conditioners in the windows and Mandy lets Mickey have the bigger room because “we all know Ian’s gonna practically move in, anyway.” So it’s the beginning of May and somehow everyone managed to wrangle the same two days off, so it’s Mandy and Mickey and Iggy, with a veritable hoard of Gallaghers - Ian and Carl and Lip and for a couple hours Fiona is there with Vee and they promise Kevin’s coming over the next day with too much beer and Svet shows up with lunch and Yev, who excitedly bounces on their new sofa and demands Ian read him his new book.  
The next day, everything’s moved in, and they collapse on the sofa, Mandy, Ian, Mickey. Ian’s head lolls onto Mickey’s shoulder and the shorter man shoves him.  
“Nope. No napping. The rest of the god damn degenerates will be here soon and you’re gonna wanna shower before they get here.”  
“Told you he was basically gonna be living here.” Mandy shoves Ian from his other side with a smile.  
“Mandy?” Ian groans from Mickey’s shoulder.  
“Mmm?”  
“Fuck off.”  
She laughs. “I’m showering first. No fucking on my sofa.”  
Mickey flips his sister off, and then kisses Ian’s sweaty temple, shoving red hair out of the younger man’s face.

Mandy was right, and she’s smug when she’s right. By July, Ian’s more-or-less moved in, his clothes shoved into Mickey’s closet and the second-hand dresser in Mickey’s room. He makes breakfast for Yev on the mornings when the kid’s there, and they read together on the comfortable sofa.   
He’s there when Mickey wakes up screaming because Terry’s beating the shit out of them again, doesn’t let Mickey shove him away, just cradles the dark haired man in the pre-dawn light until the shaking stops and Mickey can breathe again and he reminds his boyfriend that Terry’s gone, he’s  _ dead _ and that’s all there is to it. Mandy is standing in the doorway, she heard the screaming and came running, baseball bat in hand because Ian left it there, don’t you know that’s how Gallaghers deal with this kind of shit? but it drops to her side while she watches Ian shake Mickey until he’s awake, watches while her brother struggles for a moment and then collapse against his boyfriend’s chest.   
Ian’s there, still, again, never left, when something goes wrong with his new prescription and he feels the corners of his brain buzzing like a neon sign and the urge to run, to crawl out of his skin and run through open flames to see if it tickles like he thinks it might approaches, violent and angry, and then the fog rises out from nowhere and he can’t get off of the sofa and he wonders why Mickey would ever put up with him and maybe he should just - but Mickey cuts that thought off before Ian can finish it, holds the redhead close to his chest with one hand and tosses his phone to Carl, who’s sitting on the coffee table looking like he saw a ghost. Mickey brushes back Ian’s hair and kisses his forehead and holds him tight and snaps at Carl to call the fucking doctor because what the fucking hell is going on this shouldn’t be happening right now and Mickey will raise a very particular brand of Milkovich hell if it doesn’t get fixed soon, but for now he just holds his silent, pale-faced boyfriend on their sofa and thanks whatever might be listening that he’s here, he can do this now. Carl shakes out of his stupor at the tattooed fingers gripping his older brother’s face and calls the doctor and they get it figured out and a pharmacist may or may not get fired about it, but Ian’s still fucking here.

August is hot, holy shit hot, but the AC unit in their bedroom is working and there’s a fan lazily trying desperately to create some kind of breeze and they have popsicles - fucking popsicles, Ian says he bought them for Yev, but Mickey came home from work a week ago, covered in fucking engine grease with a new cut on his upper arm, to see Ian and the kid with matching popsicle smiles sitting on the sofa and Yev demands that Mickey have one as soon as he showers and honestly it’s kinda fucking nice, and the kid laughs at his dad’s blue stained tongue and Ian tastes like cherry when Mickey kisses him, so they keep eating the popsicles - in the freezer. So Mickey mostly ignores the salty stick of sweat between them when he collapses against Ian on the bed and laughs a little at the massive hickey on the juncture between Ian’s neck and his collarbone.   
“We gotta get going, Mick.” Ian grouses into the shorter boy’s shoulder.  
“Are you fuckin’ smellin’ me again, Gallagher?” Mickey leaned back a little, wincing at the combination of sweat and jizz and fucking August in Chicago.  
“Fuck off, I like the way you smell.”  
“I’m gettin’ in the shower.” Mickey stands, legs still a little wobbly, disentangling himself from his boyfriend’s octopus limbs.  
“Mmm, can I join?” Ian’s eyes are still closed and Mickey rolls his.  
“Hurry the fuck up then, Carrot Top, I don’t have all fuckin’ day.” He smirks and wraps his torso in a towel and walks out into the hallway.  
Mandy’s walking out of the bathroom with wet hair when Mickey walks in. “Nice fuckin’ hickey Mick.” She flicks her brother’s chest, right above the tattoo.  
“Fuck off, you better not’ve used all the hot water.”  
She just snorts. “I’m leaving in less than an hour.” Raises her voice. “Hurry the fuck up, Ian!”  
Ian sticks his head out the bedroom door, towel wrapped around his waist. “Did you use all the hot water, Mandy?”  
“Fucking hell!” The girl tosses her hands up in frustration. “чуває чоловіки!” And then slams her door hard enough that the walls reverberate a little.  
They manage to make it out of house without Mandy actually killing her brother or her best friend and the three of them pile in Mandy’s shitty fucking car and head to Fiona’s with a box of popsicles - Mickey’s really honestly kind of fucking hooked but he’s gonna say they’re for the kids - and a six pack. Some damn party. Always a damn party. Mandy drops her bag by the door next to a pile of shoes with no laces and not one, but two fucking baseball bats because this is still the South Side and these are still Gallaghers and the room erupts in greetings. Yev barrels into his dad’s legs and then immediately tries to climb Ian, Fiona yanks Ian into a hug and squeezes Mickey’s shoulder, everyone’s shouting, and even Lip gives Mickey a begrudging nod but avoids looking Mandy in the eye. Kev is cooking something on a grill and Vee is chopping vegetables with Svet at the kitchen counter and Carl and Deb trying to make sure Liam and Yev and Frannie don’t drown and it’s chaos but it’s the kind of chaos you need when you’ve lived with loud your whole damn life so Mickey relaxes into it a little and takes the beer that Fiona offers him and smiles at her.  
It’s dark and everyone’s full and Mandy’s braiding Deb’s hair in the living room while the kids are watching some show on tv and she’s promised she’ll drive home so Mickey’s on his third beer and to be honest he’s embarrassed how much he’s feeling it, but when your boyfriend can’t drink it feels shitty to drink in front of him so Mick’s been outta the game for a fucking while now. He’s in the kitchen with Kev talking about the bar or whatever, wondering if this fucker even needs him to be here to be part of this conversation, when Ian slides up next to him with that playful look on his face and Mickey rolls his eyes to the ceiling.  
“What the fuck do you want, Gallagher?” He groans, but without much fucking venom because the redhead looks so fucking excited it’s honestly disgusting.  
“Carl got ahold of some good fucking weed, you wanna smoke?”  
Mickey raises an eyebrow and Ian sort of wonders if the darker haired man’s eyebrows ever stay still. “I’m on fucking parole, Gingersnap.”  
Ian sags a little against the counter.  
“But you go, I’m good with beer.” Ian’s bright green eyes light up again and Mickey thinks that yeah, right fucking answer, but then... “Be fucking careful, I’m not tryna carry your dumb ass home.”  
Ian rolls his eyes, smacks a loud, obnoxious kiss against the side of Mickey’s face, which Mickey wrinkles his nose at, and runs outside.  
“Did Mickey Milkovich just get kissed on the fucking cheek and not deck anybody?” Vee asks from the doorway.  
“Fuck you is what just happened.” He responds, draining the rest of his beer. He can still feel the burn from Ian’s lips on his face.  
“You know, I always thought tigers couldn’t change their stripes.” She smirked, arms crossed, leaning against Kev.  
Svet walked in, lurching just a little, which probably meant she’d downed nearly a bottle of vodka on her own. “Mickey always like orange boy. Not change.” And then she said something in Russian that Mickey was pretty sure meant fucking stupid, because she said it all the time.  
“Awww…” Vee started to coo.  
And that’s where he draws the line. Mickey’ll let Ian kiss him, no fucking problem, he can deal with a little teasing with a clenched jaw and enough beer. But he draws the fucking line at cooing.  
“Alright you fuckin’ weirdos, that’s my fuckin’ cue.” He pushes off the counter with one foot and decides to find where his redheaded idiot of a boyfriend went off to anyway, grabbing another beer on his way out.  
He finds Lip and Ian and Carl in the lot that used to be abandoned and then it was a sorry attempt at a vegetable garden and now it’s abandoned again behind a rusted dumpster, and he can see enough in the dim street light that Ian’s a little higher than he probably should be, laying on the dirty ass ground, and Lip’s got that goofy ass serious look on his face and Carl’s got a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth and he can hear his name.  
“Not so much changed.” Ian says, breathy. “We’ve both… I don’t fucking know. Grown up? Accepted it?”  
“You fuckin’ love him.” Carl says. It’s not a question.  
“Yeah.” Ian answers anyway. “Yeah, we love each other.”  
There’s a pause. Mickey steps a little closer.  
“So what’s it like?” Lip asks, the laughter choking his voice a little. Mickey sits down next to Ian, who immediately lays his head on Mickey’s lap. “Gettin’ fucked in the ass by a Milkovich?”  
Mickey snorts out a laugh and Lip looks up and realizes that he’s sitting there and the elder Gallagher’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets and then Ian shrugs and says “Wouldn’t fuckin’ know…”  
It gets quiet again and then Carl chokes around the smoke he’s just inhaled and laughs so hard he’s crying and gasping for air and finally, because that kid has no sense of self-preservation, stares right at Ian and Mickey and says, “You mean to tell me. You fuck Mickey in the ass? The...the fucking scourge of the South Side is a bottom?” Honestly Mickey's a little impressed Carl even knows the word scourge, let alone has the brain power right now to use it.  
Ian just nods, eyes glassy, Carl's trying to choke back his laughter, Lip still looks someone just told him Ian broke into the fucking Sears Tower, and Mickey’s thinking about maybe committing murder but that takes so much work and Ian’s head is heavy in his lap and he’s got a meeting with his PO tomorrow so it’s probably just not worth it, and then Lip picks his jaw up off the dirt and speaks.  
“You fuck Mickey Milkovich?” like he’s a little bit in awe of his scrawny ass younger brother.  
Ian mutters, eyes half closed like he’s bored of this conversation, with a wave of his hand, “Have been since I was 15, dumbass.”  
And Carl’s laughing again and Lip looks like he doesn’t know if he should laugh or run or applaud, and Ian’s curling his fingers around Mickey’s free hand.  
Mickey takes a sip of his beer, and then says, gruff and just this side of annoyed, “Likin’ what you like don’t make you a bitch. Just cuz your little brother fucks like a goddamn porn star don’t mean I won’t fuckin’ kick your ass.”  
And then he decides Ian’s probably had enough weed because “God damn Carrot Top you look like someone fucking painted your eyes the same color as your hair, ya fucking lightweight.”  
“We goin’ home?” Ian mumbles into Mickey’s thigh. 

Somehow, Mickey manages to manhandle his stoned idiot of a boyfriend into a seated and upright position and then get him standing, and he’s giggling like a little fucking kid, so Mandy grabs her keys and her bag and rolls her eyes and Lip’s jaw is still somewhere near the fucking ground but they say goodbye and manage to get home without too much incident. They’re both a little more sobered up by the time Mandy parks in front of their building and she laughs at the way Ian is clinging to Mickey’s side like some kind of leech but she’s smart enough not to say shit about it, just opens the door and smirks. Mickey still flips her off with his free hand. He manages to make the dumb ass redhead eat half a peanut butter sandwich and then stuffs his meds down his throat with most of a glass of water and they fall into bed. Ian’s long ass limbs are draped across Mickey’s body and Mickey snuggles (“I do not fucking snuggle, Gallagher, shut up”) into his boyfriend’s heat.  
His second-to-last cohesive thought it “I wonder what they’d say if they knew the Dirtiest White Boy in America was the little spoon.”  
His last cohesive thought was “I don’t fucking care”  
He intertwined his tattooed fingers with Ian’s long, freckled ones and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I live off of external validation. Kudos, comments, etc, etc. Please. I'm like Tinker Bell. I die if I don't get enough attention. My tumblr is thececimonster if you want to send me prompts or comments or whatever else. I love you.


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